Sixteen Minutes to Midnight

Chapter 9

Drip.

I pushed down, felt the force on my body lift up, and took a large stride up the staircase. My body wasn't going to carry itself.

Drop.

The rain drowned out all other noise. It continued to pour, as it had done for the past few days and no doubt it would continue to pour until late tomorrow.

Drip.

How did the murderer sneak past us? My mind was overwhelmed with thoughts as a barrage of questions rushed through and left me dizzy. I grasped the side of the staircase and sharply inhaled. Then I carried on up the staircase.

Drop.

Darren and Sandra weren't far behind. I stumbled up the staircase and coughed, then swiveled and turned down the corridor to the right. The room was so close.

Drip.

I pushed the door open.

Drop.

Lying peacefully on the bed were the inanimate bodies of the newly deceased: Renault lay still on the bed, and abreast him was the body of his wife Anita. A stream of bright red blood slid down both of their foreheads. They both had been stabbed in the forehead. Puddles dotted the floor of the room. I had just chased the murderer around in the thick of the storm, after all.

Sandra walked in, took one look at the bed and then grew nauseous and turned away. Darren slammed his fist against the wall and beat it relentlessly. Foiled again.

"We were so damn close," he yelled, "so damn close."

"Shit," said Sandra, her mouth agape, "we shoulda seen it coming."

"Darren, go down and tell the others. Me and Sandra will try to make some sense of this...uh...well, there's no way to describe it."

Darren nodded, the kind of nod that felt weighty, and turned around in one fluid motion before running off. The footsteps died away and the room was once more quiet. Uncannily quiet.

"So," Sandra began, as she neared the bed, "what's your take?"

"Well, there is no observable murder weapon. I'm guessing the killer used," I pointed towards the dumbwaiter, "that, again, to get in. Other than that, I have no clue."

"More importantly, how did the murderer escape?" she asked.

I looked at the window. It was open. "Well, he or she probably jumped out."

"It's way too high up," she said, "wouldn't they have broken their leg?"

I had no clue. The only observable things in the room were a wardrobe, the furnace from before, an overturned chair and an old-fashioned radio. 

"Huh," Sandra prodded the chair with her right foot, "look at this. It fell over. Maybe that's what made the sound?"

"Probably," I shrugged.

Darren returned a minute later, and the usual shocks and crying were to be expected. But there was no crying, not even from Donna. By now, we had all grown accustomed to death. It was just one more thing that happened. Even though Darren's mother had died only a few hours ago, he had already grown cold and distant. It was like nothing mattered to any of us any more. Except survival. And retribution. Those were the only things keeping us going.

Glen sat on the bed. "I'm guessing the killer used a knife or something to kill the two of them, and then escaped with the murder weapon. That's the only explanation for why there is no murder weapon."

"Well, a knife would make a different shape of cut, wouldn't it?" asked Sandra. 

"Yeah," I butted in, "this is just one deep gash. It doesn't stretch or anything. Like if you got stabbed by a drill? That's what it seems to be made from."

"Hey," she replied, "what if...and this might sound kinda stupid...but what if the killer had secret passages throughout the mansion? That way, they could have easily escaped, right?"

"That is a preposterous idea," said Dmitri, "sure, there may very well be a secret room, but the idea of secret passages? That's absurd, frankly. Sorry, but if there was one we would have all known about it."

"But the whole point of a secret passage...is to be a secret." 

Dmitri sighed. "It would require lots of time to build, and unless it was built before we were hired, the possibility of it existing is very low."

"What of the secret room?" I asked, "Does that also have a very low chance of existing?"

The breeze whistled through the window and the air grew cold.

"The master told me it existed. Now while I cannot confirm the authencitity of that claim, it was told to me by the master one morning in one of his drunken stupors. So it must partially be true."

"Then why don't we keep searching for it?"

"Craig, we've already tried," moaned Glen, "and it's going to get us nowhere. We need to focus on staying alive. Make this room into a stronghold, and stay in here until the storm dies. That's the smartest idea."

"There are so many ways to get into this room. The murderer has a key, the dumbwaiter is easliy accessible, there might even be a secret passage, for God's sake! What makes you think this room is any safer than the rest?"

"Nothing, but it's worth a shot."

"Is it really?"

"If you want to sleep outside, be my guest. I'll be in here, with Donna," and he tugged at her arm, "so suit yourself."

Donna resisted. She broke away from his grip and held her arm with her other hand. "You know, Glen...maybe Craig has a point. Three people have died in this room so far, and I think that says something." He scowled.

"Well, if no one wants to sleep here, I'll sleep here alone, just to prove you all wrong!"

"Glen, you're digging a hole for yourself," said Gilbert sternly, "think about what you're about to do. We don't want another person showing up dead tomorrow morning."

"This room is safe! Fine, you know what, why don't we all sleep in the damn boatman shack? It's so far away, the killer will never find us! Am I right?" he mocked sarcastically, "how bout it, Craig?"

"Shut up, Glen, this is no mood to argue. We're all tired, and all these murders are taking their toll on your mind. You need to res-hey, wait a sec."

"What is it?" snapped Sandra.

"The boat shack."

"What about it?"

"The secret room."

"I don't get it...are you ok?"

"The secret room...I've got a hunch it's in the boat shack."